


Manhattan (Weeks Gone By)

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, Family Feels, Grief, Multi, grownup relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4228353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/">jim_and_bones</a> St. Patrick’s Day challenge, because only I can turn a flash fic prompt into 8000 words.  I haven't been able to stop listening to Frightened Rabbit’s “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pfpXLu62hGE">In Living Colour</a>”   from their <i>Winter of Mixed Drinks</i> album as I was trying to figure out what I wanted to say for my next story,  and then this challenge came along, and literal writer! is literal, so, there you go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manhattan (Weeks Gone By)

Author: blcwriter  
Title: Manhattan (Weeks Gone By)  
Word Count: 7988  
Rating: R for adult themes—marriage, sadness, death of secondary characters, life being generally hard with the grief, anger and depression that come along with that and getting older.  
Betas: The marvelous [](http://sangueuk.livejournal.com/profile)[**sangueuk**](http://sangueuk.livejournal.com/) and [](http://abigail89.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://abigail89.livejournal.com/)**abigail89**  . Thank you, darlings!  
Summary: For the [](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/profile)[**jim_and_bones**](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/)  St. Patrick’s Day challenge, because only I can turn a flash fic prompt into 8000 words. I haven't been able to stop listening to Frightened Rabbit’s “[In Living Colour](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pfpXLu62hGE)”  from their _Winter of Mixed Drinks_ album as I was trying to figure out what I wanted to say for my next story, and then this challenge came along, and literal writer! is literal, so, there you go.

The prompt was "Manhattan," and the boys wanted to be married in modern times and run a bar in the Village with the whole gang involved.  Non-happy-fun-times ensue before things sort of resolve.  There are some ideas [](http://weepingnaiad.livejournal.com/profile)[**weepingnaiad**](http://weepingnaiad.livejournal.com/)   and [](http://sangueuk.livejournal.com/profile)[**sangueuk**](http://sangueuk.livejournal.com/)   will recognize from various discussions we’ve had, as well as [](http://canis-takahari.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://canis-takahari.livejournal.com/)**canis_takahari** ’s fanon Gaila & Jim friendship, including _de rigueur_ pedicures.  


_New Year’s_

  
Jim had taken enough psych in college to know there were stages to grief—and enough therapy, too, to know he was going to have give Bones time, all of that stuff. It wasn’t like he didn’t miss David, too—he’d been there, been shocked when David’d just clutched his head, keeled over right at Christmas dinner table.

But there’d been nothing to do, and it wasn’t like he was going to begrudge Bones the sock to the jaw when he’d tugged him away so the EMTs could take his— nonresponsive, but he wasn’t going to tell Bones he was dead—father’s body to the hospital for the official workup.

But Bones’ “what the fuck do you know, you never had a father to miss” after the funeral, when he’d been crying those horrible silent tears and Jim’d just been rubbing his arm, his “I know” quiet and firm, just meant to reassure because lord knew, missing his family? Jim was a champ at missing his family—what did Bones _mean_ , Jim didn’t know?-- Dad first and then Sam and then Mom just last year?

He was trying to be patient. Goddamnit. He was.

There didn’t seem to be a lot in the self-help books about how to tactfully call partners on being vicious assholes, however.

Even Eleanor had been shocked, her “Leonard,” chastising, but Bones’ “He _doesn’t_ ” had been unrepentant, and then he’d stomped off in the New Year’s Eve rain toward the East River. In the end, they’d carried on without him, and Jim’d helped Eleanor—along with Sulu and Spock—strew the barely-shellacked pine casket-- _"Keep it simple, I’m just an old country bartender, damnit!_ "-- with earth, sprinkle it with some of David’s favorite rye _“No flowers for me, just my Old Overholt to send me to Earth,”_. Jim had a vision of his father-in-law as he’d hold forth on whatever, David had really had the gift of the gab—as he settled bottles back in their racks and recounted stories to the neighborhood regulars and the gourmands who traveled over the bridge for a regular drink that didn’t require a mortgage.

Not that he hadn’t driven—driven, in his antique Mustang, old Sally, that cherry-red beauty-- over to Jim and Bones’ place to make fun of their home-brewed bitters, Sulu’s vodka concoctions, and eat whatever Gaila or Chapel sent out from the kitchen. But when Jim thought of David at home, it was always tending bar at McCoy’s.

Jim’s weary thoughts accompanied him to the bathroom, where he sat on the edge of the toilet, pulled off his clothes while the tap ran, watched the water steam as the tub filled. The house was dark and he didn’t bother to turn on the lights as he sank into the tub, soaked out the aches of running the bar all by himself. He had the rest of the crew, but it _was_ called _The Captain and Doctor_. Saturday nights without Bones at the other end of the H-shaped bar were just fucking brutal. He let himself float in the dark, adrift without sight or sound now that it was three o’clock in the morning and even Brooklyn was quiet. He wondered if Bones was home—if he’d gone to McCoy’s to help out.

Sloshing his knees against the sides of the tub set the water a-whorl. He debated, just briefly, ducking his head under the water and inhaling, but no. He wasn’t at that point—he was just being maudlin, really, lonely because his last three attempts to reach out had been met with subverbal growls and grunts.

He pulled the plug from the tub and watched despite the dark as the shadowed water drained, then reluctantly headed into the bedroom to discover the quiet, huddled form in the bed in the dark.

Except-- Bones wasn’t sleeping. He wondered if Bones really thought Jim thought he was—but he didn’t say anything, just dropped his clothes in the hamper, found a clean tee and shorts, pulled them on and crawled into his side of the bed. Bones was curled on his side. Curled away.

_Late February_

  
“I’m telling you, Jim, it’s going to be epic,” Gaila smiled, then applied another coat of hot pink polish to one toe. He didn’t know why the bachelorette party for Nyota required him to also have painted toenails, but apparently Chekov had also agreed and no way was he going to be undercut by his _garde manger_ , thank you.

“If you say so, I’m sure it will,” he agreed, then watched as his chef reached for the lime green-colored polish. What on Earth were they going to do that he was going to be barefoot? Even if he closed the bar early, they wouldn’t go out until nearly eleven. And why on earth was Gaila giving him a pedicure a week in advance? Why was he letting her?

“Any chance you’ll be able to get Len to come?” She smiled and batted her lashes, as if she thought Jim had a chance of transmitting that particular flourish—not that he didn’t have his own ways, but Gaila’s eyelash bat was a whole different creature than his. Bones’d once said he looked like “an allergic golden retriever or something.” Not that it still hadn’t gotten Bones into bed, so, whatever. But Gaila was sultry and three years younger. Jim’s All-American preppy-collegiate good looks were going the way of silver threads at his temples and crow’s feet where he used to have smile lines, while Bones just got craggier and more handsome—and not one damned speck of gray—with each year.

Jim tried not to be too mope-faced—it’d make his frown lines even worse—and did not look at his reflection in the mirrors surrounding the main bar from where they sat at one of the high-tops.

“G, I can’t even get him to come into work. I left him a note, told him when and where. You’d probably do better to call him than me.”

Gaila patted his ankle, so he put his other foot in her lap and closed his eyes, let her work. When she spoke, he didn’t open his eyes. It was easier to answer that way.

“I don’t want you guys to get a divorce.”

New York didn’t think they were legally married, but he didn’t need to get into that now. “It’s not always awful…” he answered. “We went out to dinner at Frankie’s last week, actually laughed, had a good night.” The fact that they hadn’t had sex— and yet, they’d spent time together and Bones had enjoyed Jim’s company enough to actually laugh, so maybe Jim shouldn’t push—well, neither sex or laughter occurred at their house as often as a blue moon in June, all that faux-ironic shit they played in the bar. Still, though. He’d bitched too much about his personal life outside of his sessions with Dr. Rand. Better to keep all that stuff there and concentrate on getting on with the parts of his life he could do shit about.

_  
In the Wee, Dark Hours of the Morning_

  
There was a fist-hole in the hallway when he came in later that night—a quick look at the table where all the bills and mail got tossed told him there was a letter from the lawyer Eleanor’d hired. A quick scan and—ah—some issues with the landlord about the lease at McCoy’s, but nothing that Spock wouldn’t be able to work out if Eleanor would agree to let Spock tag along, that and he assumed Bones was planning on keeping on running the bar. Since that was where Bones spent all his time—not that he’d actually told Jim that, but he’d heard from others. Ten thousand bars in five boroughs was still a small world, and bar-keeping was the kind of enterprise where everybody kept tabs on each other. Especially when ex-boyfriends like Gary Mitchell came sniffing around, wanting to know if you needed a new partner to hold down the other end of the bar when fucking Sulu fumbled another damned Parking Brake—“too much yuzu and bitters!” the old fart had remonstrated, and why not, it was the third time tonight. Sulu should just punt those to Jim, even if he’d invented the thing.

And yeah-- Mitchell was a cock-sucking ass, but he could toss a shaker, not that they didn’t mostly stir drinks these “artisanal” days. Still, though. Gary could nearly read minds when it came to knowing what someone wanted to drink, second only to Bones, which was why they called him the doctor—he had the cure for what ailed you, whereas you drank what Jim gave you because his eyes twinkled when he served you the order. Yep—Jim was the charismatic, alcohol-dispensing captain whose orders you couldn’t help but follow. In truth, though, Jim was better at getting people to open up at drink two than either Gary or Bones, and he always got them to tell him what it was they really wanted even if it was TMI. But whatever.  He’d made a lot of good drinks and friends and hired his best staff that way. People came into the bar because of Bones’ reputation—but they stayed until closing and came back because they could chew Jim’s ear off and he’d tell them how to deal with their shit.

Hunh. Maybe that was why they called him the captain? Funny to just figure that out, he’d been doing this since sophomore year just because it paid so damned well, and then he’d dragged Bones to work the next week because the man knew his whiskey and Finnegan was a jackass. Besides, Jim didn’t like working without someone he liked to talk to.

If he could just figure out the right thing to say to Bones, get him out of this—funk was such an inappropriate word, but nervous breakdown wasn’t quite the word either.

Jim sorted the bills, shoved them into his bag to pay online tomorrow. After a moment, he threw in the letter from Eleanor’s lawyer. He’d patch the plaster after Ny’s party—just not tonight. Gary’s cologne always gave him a headache, that and just being a pest. He’d been relieved when Chapel’d finally dragged Gary off to some new club down the block. Thank goodness Gary swung both ways and Chris would bonk anything that would wrap up in latex. He’d have to make to give her whatever menu changes she wanted this month.

He changed in the dark—as usual—and Bones wasn’t asleep. As usual. Nor did he greet Jim, as usual, even though McCoy’s was fucking six blocks away and he’d have been home for at least an hour-- if he’d worked tonight, which Jim wouldn’t know until he caught up tomorrow with Chekov, who had a thousand hispster gossipy friends who texted him and whose texts Chekov blushingly related-- because nobody liked keeping tabs on Bones, but nobody liked Jim not knowing, either.

He tossed his clothes on the hamper and watched as Bones didn’t flinch or roll over as an ambulance screamed down the street—like he would’ve if he’d really been asleep, that amusing snort-grumble that was an echo of Bones’ default curmudgeon that belied what Jim had once thought was a generous heart. And maybe still was, to other people than Jim. Well—pardon him for trying to give comfort.

“Fuck you. I loved him too. You don’t get the monopoly on loving someone.” He whispered it; there was no indication if he was heard.

He grabbed the afghan off the foot of the bed. Why should he put up with the literal cold shoulder? If Bones couldn’t even fucking stand to acknowledge his presence when he’d had to commute almost an hour to get home? The sofa was lumpy, but at least _it_ kept Jim’s back warm.

_Early March_

  
They were uptown—one of the newer waitress’ places, Cait Barry? maybe, he could never remember the girls’ names-- apparently chosen because it was a huge penthouse, and how much was Ny letting them taking home in tips these days if this was where she lived? Either that or she was a reporter—that, or some rich girl, slumming. An eyebrow at Spock and a look over the room—his right business hand nodded, made some note on his Blackberry. He’d let Jim know if she was legit or someone who worked for the competition, nothing Jim needed with his personal life down the crapper. But if she was legit, well—in any event, tonight it was great that no neighbors complained about noise and dancing, so Jim set his mind to not being a party pooper and danced, twirled the girls barefoot on the fancy hardwood to Gaga and Britney and Christina and whatever other house music they put on that was pretty damned awful while Ny danced with Gaila in a way that even Jim could admit was a little bit hot. Chapel was making out in the corner with Jim’s therapist—how on Earth she got here, Jim did not want to know, but he sure as hell hoped client confidentiality survived the Harvey Wallbangers Sulu was making.

Spock was sitting in one corner, playing Unobtrusive Lawyer and looking like he was contemplating some kind of fancy law review article about entertainment culture or something. Jim was pretty sure the groom-to-be wasn’t supposed to come to the bachelorette party, but it was 2012 and he’d gone the traditional route and look where that’d gotten him, while Gaila, as epic BFF maid of honor, had pretty much invited everybody they knew. What the fuck did Jim know?

“You write this up as one of your not-so-stealthy as you think you are 'Ninja Nightlife' columns for the _Voice_ and I’ll fire you,” Jim said, and maybe he was a little bit slurry, but that was okay. Everyone here was family. Ish. No Bones, but he’d been gone when Jim’d woken up on the couch, so no fucking surprises.

Spock didn’t flinch, but then again, the dude was good. It’d taken Jim three columns before he’d figured out NN was Spock. His only response was, “Your speech is uncharacteristically slurred.”

“You’re my CPA and lawyer, not my bartender,” Jim shot back, concentrating, and there, that was better. “Maybe Sulu roofied the Wallbangers so he can nut up and ask Chekov out. Finally.”

Spock nodded. “It is illogical that he has not before now. The statutory rape age in New York is 17, so Chekov has been of age since he began work as a busboy, and the attraction has always been apparent.”

Jim couldn’t help laughing. “Right, because thinking about statutory rape, Spock? That’s not a boner-killer at all.” He set down his drink after one more sip— it was good but strong, and Jim had promised to be available to drive, so one was his limit. He hopped up on the wide bay window ledge where Spock sat, then rested his chin on his knees. “It’s not that easy, and Sulu’s family…” He shook his head. They were delving into bartender/drinker confidence here. “Anyway.”

Spock nodded, and looked down at Jim’s toes. “I find myself jealous that I was not asked to participate in the pre-party preparations. Which is irrational, as I often work out in the firm’s gym, and such frivolities would invite negative comment…”

Jim snickered and beheld the pedicure that would make Lily Pulitzer jealous. If, you know, she were a sporty gay bar owner in the East Village who ran the best Ultimate league in Central Park. “You want pink or green?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Green.” As if there were no other answer. He bent over and pulled off his captoes and whoa—rainbow striped cashmere socks-- then beheld his long, pale, hairy, unpainted toes. “After all, if I am joining the family, as such things stand, one must participate in the rituals…”

Jim laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. There’s a Duane Reed on the corner. Be right back with some polish, dude, and then we’ll initiate you. But I’ll have you know, you’re also going to have to make and drink a Cement Mixer and an Irish Car Bomb.” Rainbow cashmere socks. There was hope for Spock after all.

With his usual reserve and aplomb, Spock nodded his head. “It is called the Bar Exam for a reason, Jim. And I did pass. With flying colors.”

If Jim hadn’t laughed that hard since before David died, well, he wasn’t going to dwell for once. Just slip on his sneakers and promise Gaila and Ny he’d be right back—he just needed to get supplies to “sparklify Spock.” Because cashmere was cool, but lime green polish? Totally bitching.

_Eighty-Four Hours Later_

  
When he woke, the room was bright and white and spare and _so not_ his brownstone. Also, there was something stuck down his throat. Up his nose, too. When he shifted to look, there was a vase of irises on a table next to a—oh, right, hospital bed, and Eleanor and Chapel and Spock and were all occupied with various books or papers or in Spock’s case, something on his iPad because it was Spock. Give the guy a gadget and he’d take it apart and improve it in no time, then start harassing the senior partners all over again. They’d put him in charge of the firm any day now, just to get him out of their hair.

He tried talking and Eleanor—when was the last time he’d seen her? He’d sent chocolates at Valentine’s Day, he’d taken her to lunch two weeks ago, right—shushed him, taking his hand in her wrinkled, pearly-pink manicured hand. She always smelled like honey, a bit, and he had a hot drink he named after her made with ginger liqueur and tupelo honey along with some other stuff, Meyer lemon juice, superfine sugar, a wee bit of nutmeg, some butter, a half shot of Bones’ dad’s favorite rye. It’d sold like the dickens this winter.

“Honey, shh, wait until the doctors come to check on you. You passed out at Nyota’s party when you went on your errand, oh, sweetie, they said you were dehydrated and hadn’t been eating.” Her eyes welled up in tears and shit, how was Jim supposed to tell her not to cry with a fucking tube down his throat? Chapel patted her hand and Spock cleared his throat, looking a little—what? Mad? Yeah. He looked pissed, he was raising one whole eyebrow. Probably because Jim was such a cheap date and had ruined his fiancée’s party.

“The doctors indicated that your recent dehydration and weight loss, coupled with some new medications you have been taking, created adverse homeostatic effects. You became dizzy, lost consciousness, and broke several ribs, puncturing your lung when you fell against a fireplug. You also hit your head. You have been unconscious for several days.” He was definitely annoyed. One corner of his mouth twitched at the end of that recitation.

And—several days? Oh. Well, no fucking wonder Eleanor was crying. “Sorry,” he mouthed, and Eleanor gulped, nodded, blew her nose daintily into one of her always-present handkerchiefs, the ones with her initials and little sprays of lilacs because she was genteel and classy like Kirks never were, then reached back to pat his hand once again. And yet Winona and she had gotten such a kick out of each other, and she’d been a champ when the cancer’d come back and Mom had….

“I must unfortunately leave to attend to some business,” Spock said suddenly, that eyebrow creeping up into his hairline. “Excuse me. Jim, I am relieved to see you awake.” His being pissed made his Oxbridge even stiffer.

And then Spock was gone and Jim was stuck with a tube down as his throat while he had to find something to distract his weepy mother-in-law and clearly upset _sous-chef_ and shit. Well. Business was safe.

 _“Who’s running the bar?”_ he wrote on the pad Chapel produced from her messenger bag. She looked relieved to have something to do.

“Sulu and Gary and Chekov. He’s actually kind of a whiz kid when you get him over his nerves. And Spock’s been in. He only knows how to make the old-fashioned stuff, but he actually makes a mean gin fizz. Really. And Gaila and I are doing fine in the kitchen, the boys leave us alone. And Barnett, Spock’s senior partner? Boss? He came in, checked out the kitchen, even said hi. He’s not really that bad.”

Jim rubbed his hand over his face in lieu of getting all drama queen. Too much to hope Bones would get jolted out of his own misery by Jim’s stupid mishap and show up on his doorstep, and Jesus, Spock was taking time off from the firm? Jim sent him lots of business, yeah, referred other clients, but not enough to justify this.

 _”Well, that’s fine for now, but I want you to bring in the receipts tomorrow,”_ he wrote, because there was an undertone of “How long can we do this without you?” in her voice that said “This is fine, but it’s cobbled-together.” He wasn’t going to waste his M.B.A., not when the bar was what was left, that and the promotions he’d finally got going with the restaurants around and the farmers and Upstate distillers and….

Chapel smiled and nodded, and Eleanor watched as Jim started to scribble a whole list of questions about what had happened the last several days—none of which had to do with where the hell was her son. It wasn’t that Jim didn’t want to know—but he couldn’t afford to, not and keep going right now. Someone had to be the one not on the verge of crying.

_Time Marches On_

  
Things went—more or less—back to normal. Jim switched anxiety meds, didn’t lift anything heavy until the doctors gave him the okay, and if he had a patchy memory of the smell of Harvey Wallbangers and Spock and Britney Spears, that seemed to be the only brain damage. Gaila and Chapel were pains in the ass about food—fucking fruit and yogurt when he came in first thing and lunch midafternoon and supper as well and everyone else hovering until he’d eaten at least half of whatever-- but as he’d told Jan, it wasn’t like he was trying to starve himself.  He just wasn’t hungry.

“Loss of appetite is a by-product of depression,” she’d told him.

“I’m not depressed,” he’d snapped back before he had fallen. Passed out. Whatever. “I can’t feel my fingers and toes and I break out in sweats and I worry about my staff getting run over by trucks or hit by alien death rays and what if one of my patrons actually takes my advice and then sues me if I’m wrong even though I’m a bartender and Spock assures me it’ll never stand up in court and then I lose the whole business and everyone’s unemployed and it’s all my damned fault? You know-- crazy, delusional shit.”

Jan had just nodded, her beehive abob. “You’re worried about people leaving.”

“Whatever, yeah, I’d just like to get through a fucking shift without having to hide in the back room with my asthma inhaler,” he’d barked, and she’s told him she’d call his PCP and have Pike write a prescription for some anti-anxiety med that was also an anti-depressant, not that she thought that he’d need it forever, only as long as the “situation with Leonard persisted.”

“Or I get run over by a truck, which is more fucking likely to solve things,” he’d cracked, and it was a _joke_. Except she’d visited him when he was still in the hospital and dragged Pike along and they’d both worn concerned-doctor faces and nagged him to eat and “do positive things.” That and prescribed him a new med, when he admitted he still felt like his head might explode if he didn’t have something to do to distract himself from thoughts about all the shit he couldn’t do anything about whatsoever.

And Spock and Nyota were being damned weird. He could get Ny—“I have 10% in the place, I want to make sure you’re not falling over--” had been her excuse when he’d checked out with Spock and found her waiting downstairs in a town car with a few duffel bags of his stuff, but he couldn’t believe Spock really wanted Jim underfoot in their place. Even if it was only a five-minute walk from the bar, and therefore a less stressful commute, stress being something Jim was supposed to avoid. But-- East Village real estate was _tiny_ , even as much as Spock probably made and as nice a place as they had, cats notwithstanding, and who knew they had _cats_? They’d moved to the boroughs on purpose; Bones wanted space to spread out, and they’d christened every room in the house… no. He wasn’t going to think about that. But Spock had just looked all pissed when Jim’d mentioned going back to his own place in Brooklyn—and said—“I would feel better if you stayed with us for a while” in a way that Jim could tell wasn’t a lie.

Even if the dude did work crazy-ass hours. So Jim made extra-sure Chapel or Gaila, whomever was working, got Spock the happy vegan special du jour when he walked in after work at eleven or twelve—hell, sometimes only a half-hour before close, and then mixed him a Ramos fizz or a something else with Plymouth because Spock did love his gin, even if he’d put up with a quirk of his eyebrow at all of Jim’s gin-sperimentations. Heh. He snorted to himself at the bad pun just as Sulu caught his eye across the bar where Archer was sipping his Parking Brake and _not_ sending it back—finally—and Jim smiled more widely, mimed a high five. Sulu virtually mimed meeting it, smiled back, and then went back to pouring drinks. Mid-way down the bar, Mitchell was pouring a specialty of his own he called the “ESP,” but he’d taken Jim’s rebuffs in stride, finally, so Jim smiled at him, too, and then went to find the next customer who needed a refill.

There. That hound-dog looking red-headed Irish kid sitting next to Scotty—Jim assumed he was 21, Ny’d let him in. He looked like he could use a friend, and Scotty and Gaila were fighting again, so she wouldn’t be ducking out of the kitchen to flirt with their fruit and vegetable supplier. Jim sized up the kid and decided he probably needed advice more than alcohol. Time to play captain.

Hah. It’d been a while since he’d referred to himself that way. Maybe he was going to live.

_Spring Equinox_

  
He stared up at the full moon—fullest in twenty years, Chekov’d been nattering on at the staff meeting, Spring Equinox and all of that stuff and it turned out he was studying astronomy days at Columbia, Jim had known and forgotten—and decided that the Village had another thing over Brooklyn—well, besides the commute and the lack of surly bedmates—their place didn’t have a roof with a fifteenth-floor view.

He shifted and pulled the blanket around him a little more closely, feeling the swing shift as he snorted. Who knew Spock was such a romantic—a porch swing on a roof because Ny said she missed the one she’d grown up with—and their neighbors romantic enough to leave it alone and help maintain it the whole winter through. Anyone who said New Yorkers sucked didn’t know the ones Jim did. He put one foot down on the tarpaper—no longer warm from the day’s sun—and pushed before drawing his feet up again.

“They say it’s the biggest moon in twenty years,” Bones said behind him.

“They do,” Jim allowed. He’d been organizing receipts at work, grabbed a bunch off the island here on the way in, and saw Spock’s firm’s town car records, which had gotten mixed in. They included a fair number to Brooklyn—so he wasn’t entirely surprised by the visit, even as he hadn’t looked further at Spock’s lawyer stuff.

“Can I sit?” Bones asked—and then sat, before Jim’s agreeing “Sure” was half out.

“When did you start painting your toes?” he asked after a long, awkward pause Jim wasn’t going to fix. Jim looked down. This week, they were “Passionate Peach” and “Salacious Silver,” though how silver was salacious he didn’t know. His only rule was they had to be two colors, not one.

“It was Gaila’s idea. She painted everyone’s toes before Nyota’s party,” and the inevitable pause Jim couldn’t help, “and now she does them for me each week.”

Bones’ surly “That’s stupid, you indulge her too much, you should take it off” was so preposterously, simplistically, jealous, of all fucking things, that Jim just exploded away from the swing.

“I kind of like it. Seeing as it’s the only time someone _touches_ me that’s not us all bumping in to each other during work, I don’t think I will. Yeah. It’s the only quiet time when someone pays attention to me that’s not about work. So, no. Fuck you. I don’t think I will.” He looked down at his ridiculous toes and smiled at them. “Plus, _I_ picked those colors.” He was going with gold and purple next week, he’d already decided.

Bones was staring at him like he had two heads and Jim had—he didn’t know what. But he was done with whatever they weren’t doing, with this feeling of an iceberg and an icepick under his chest.

“Go back to Brooklyn. I don’t even know why you’re _here_. I’ll trade you, alright—your share in the bar for my share in the house, have Spock dissolve the corporation if that’s what you want. I’ll owe you some money since the bar isn’t liquid, but whatever. I’ll sell my Ducati or something, borrow the rest, the bar’s doing well and I can take out a loan.”

Bones just gaped before he said, “We’ve been together since _college_. I don’t want a divorce.”

Jim shrugged—inhaled—suppressed a cough when he inhaled too far because his ribs were still catchy. “Don’t you?”

Bones shook his head. “No.” Jim was not going to moon over how tired and handsome and tired and just … shit … fuck … exhausted Bones looked. He wasn’t. Too late.

Jim shrugged again and wished this conversation was over. He was going to kill Spock later. “Could have fooled me, what with that whole been-a-month-since-the-hospital and I haven’t heard from you once thing.” Wow. Bitter. He should bottle that shit. Or maybe not; it wasn’t really palatable.

Bones, normally perpetually tan—except in summer, when he was bronze-- turned pretty damned white, and tried to stand up from the swing, but something in him seemed to deflate and he sat down, stared at his knees. His voice came out in a rasp. “I was _there_ right away, that first night, and … and I didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about, why you had anxiety pills in your bag, why they were talking about depression and weight-loss and dehydration and all of that shit and you… you looked _awful_ and I couldn’t even remember the name of your doctor. I just … fell apart, Spock had to do everything, turns out they’ll let him get away with that because of the … corporate stuff for the house and the business … and … you know how ridiculous it is? That your husband’s lawyer can give the Emergency doc a better history of how you’ve been-- _not_ eating and sleeping than I can?”

Still. But …

“No. I don’t, because I had no _idea_ you were there.”

Bones looked up at him, looked utterly lost. “But I left you irises, you know, from our first date? I just … I couldn’t breathe, I had to work, it was the only thing that made sense… and … ” His eyes begged for a thousand apologies he’d never once offered all winter, and Jim—his eyes pricked.

Jim suddenly had to sit down because he was dizzy. He remembered the irises in the room. No card, and Spock hadn’t said. “They said there might be a little memory loss, though I thought it was just around the fall stuff. I don’t remember.”

Bones turned a little and the swing protested, squeaking. “We went to the botanical garden to see the irises because Gaila said they were the same color as your eyes, I said that was goddamned flowery bullshit, you said it sounded like a perfect first date, and I told you that if your eyes were the same color I’d buy dinner. If they weren’t, you’d buy.”

It didn’t ring a bell, though he remembered they’d been fuck buddies before they started dating. It was the nineties. Casual was how sex was done, although with condoms, since, of course, AIDS.

Maybe they shouldn’t have tried to be more.

“Who paid?” he asked.

“We went dutch.” Bones was still addressing his knees.

Jim stood again, feeling restless. He took the quilt he’d bummed from the guest room and pulled it up a bit so it didn’t get dirty, dragged it up onto his shoulders. “Maybe that should’ve been some kind of sign.”

He walked to the edge of the roof, rested his arms on the ledge, looked uptown. Even at midnight on Monday—the city’s quietest night from Jim’s perspective. Things were still busy, taxis and buses and people about, though they were all ants from this viewpoint, though not in quite the same way people had felt even a few weeks ago when just getting up every day and making normal conversation was like … shouting from Mars.

The cinderblocks nudged into his breastbone, pushed the ice-feeling aside. He felt quivery, nervous—and why shouldn’t he? It was practically more real words without any pretending than he’d had with Bones in years, much less since David died. They’d settled into such a routine, coming and going from work, running the bar, keeping the house up. They didn’t even have any pets. He liked Nyota’s stupid overbred Burmeses. He bumped his toes into the ledge, debated whether or not he should stop, and then started again after snorting at his dumb melodrama. They were _his_ colorful toes. It was his decision whether he scratched his gayer-than-gay pedicure, and he got to decide. Was going to decide. Was living his life and looking at things and smiling at people and if it took a little effort sometimes, well. He still did. That made a difference; Jan said so, even if Jim wasn’t quite to the part of believing it inside his head.

Bones wrapped his arms around Jim’s shoulders, tucked his chin over Jim’s shoulder—a move that was only not awkward because he had boots on and Jim was barefoot. “I wouldn’t blame you for being pissed for what I said about your dad. I mean… your family, and… ” He choked off, his voice thick, but hell—A for effort. Jim wondered if Bones was seeing anyone. Therapy-wise. Chekov’s tweet-buddies said he was living like a monk, though he’d mostly told Chekov he didn’t want to know unless it was a medical emergency or something these days.

Jim debated, but then laid out what he could. “I’m not mad because of my dad. And I’m not mad because of the hospital, either, not anymore, though I was mad—back then. I’m mad because—because I tried. I tried to be there and you wouldn’t let me and we always promised we’d talk to each other and listen to what the other one had to say and you broke your half of the deal. I know it’s stupid, I mean, you weren’t—not—don’t—in a place to hear it—but I can only bang my head on a brick wall for so fucking long, and it’s not like, I don’t know, Bones. All I know is… I’ve got to be able to get out of bed every day. And if that means you’re not in it?”

He swallowed the ice pick lodged in his throat and didn’t swipe at the stupid tears because Bones’ arms around his shoulders made it all awkward. “It’ll suck. Big time. But I’ve still got to do it. And maybe that’s selfish and awful but … it’s not black and white. It’s all muddy when I’m having a shit day and going to bed here on my own because Spock and Ny are at a firm thing and fucking rainbows when everyone at work’s having a good time and we’re making shitloads of cash or your mom’s smiling because we’re having tea at the Palm Court and she loves stuff like that, but … I need to breathe. I can’t when I’m waiting to find out what wrong thing I haven’t said to make you feel better, or what thing I did to set you off or what new part of our house you’re going to destroy, and you just … ignore me and don’t touch me and won’t _look_ at me and I _tried_. Maybe not well enough, or long enough, or loud enough, something. But still.” And then he snuffled, which was a horrible way to end that confession, but it wasn’t like they were some romance story. They were just Jim and Bones, college roommates who fucked and decided they didn’t love anyone else any better and then they got married. Sort of. Since Vermont only counted sometimes.

“I don’t want a divorce, or whatever handwaving Jedi shit Spock’d do to our assets, at least,” Bones ground out. “I’ve been—tryin’ to get the old place in some shape to sell. Wes Crusher wants to take it, he’s got most of the money. But the landlord’s being an ass and the zoning commission, the new signs, you wouldn’t believe, and the regulars….” His voice shook with anger. Maybe grief, too.

“Guess I should have told you and Mama that. Hunh?”

Jim nodded.

“That’s what Spock said, and it sounded a lot more impressive with all those curse words coming out in all those stuffy, cultured tones.”

If Jim laughed, he wasn’t trying to be mean, but it was so long since Bones had joked, much less bitched about Spock, whom he’d always claimed he’d never liked because he’d “stolen” Bones’ best girl friend Nyota… “I would have paid money to see that,” Jim murmured.

Bones’ tone was sour. “Yeah, well, I’m sure someone has it on YouTube. He lit into me right in the middle of service, didn’t even try to get me to clear the room first, just walked in and started chewing me out as he delivered that letter from Mama’s lawyer that you’d had in your bag when—when” and his voice broke “they found you, then told me he’d already taken the liberty of calling the landlord for the sake of his friendship with you since I most certain as fuck hadn’t earned it…”

“He did not say most certain as fuck.”

Bones chuckled this time. “Oh yes, he most certainly did.” He swallowed, the convulsion of it loud in Jim’s ear. “And then Mama lit into me later that night. I think she must’ve come right from the hospital. I was feeling sorry for myself and asked her if you’d asked about me and she smacked me in the back of the head and said no, she pretty much thought you’d given up any hope of me. Even if it took me three weeks to man up and get my ass over the bridge.”

Jim exhaled. It was still cool enough that his breath steamed, but it wasn’t the cold of winter anymore—he could feel spring coming. He’d sat in Washington Square at lunchtime and just soaked up the sun and he hadn’t shivered. Hadn’t felt anxious. Hadn’t worried about being hit by satellite parts. When he opened his eyes, the moon was still huge and though there were buildings taller than them all around, he felt like from where he was standing, he could see all of Manhattan and know—tell them, too, that in time, they’d blink off the grey film that could settle sometimes and feel like humans again.

“I don’t know about giving up,” he finally said when he could feel Bones start to stiffen in worry because Jim was taking so long. It wasn’t like he was intentionally making him wait. He was just trying to think. “I thought about it, yeah—but I think in the end, I … kind of set it aside and thought about everyday stuff, because it was what I needed to handle and … it was kind of the only thing I could do, anyway.”

“Do you want to try?” Bones sounded so fucking doubtful and there—that was the thing that Jim needed. He turned around—spun, really, and poor Bones looked green, he really did hate heights, so Jim backed them two steps away from the ledge, he’d forgotten, and re-wrapped them both in the quilt, put his hands carefully around Bones’ waist while tipping his head back to look his—whatever—right in the eye.

He nodded. “Yeah. But … I ….”

“What?”

Bones looked … open. Listening, for the first time in—a while.

“I miss everyone. I know it’s just a borough, it shouldn’t make a difference, but….” Jim had always been the practical one who made all the money and technical plans while Bones worked his weird magic with the staff and Jim ran interference on whatever was left. Now, though, having to talk about things that he wanted, rather than things that were merely good for the business or their bank account and therefore theoretically good for them as a couple? Fuck if he knew. He’d gotten it all wrong so far. If he’d just planned better, maybe, none of this falling-apart shit might have happened. He swallowed, looked down at the rippled roof surface, tried to figure out how to finish.

Bones filled the silence. “Manhattan’s where work is, and where everyone else but my Mom lives. And she told me if I was staying in Brooklyn for her she’d go find Daddy’s sawed-off. If it’s more expensive to live here? It might pay off other ways. And we met here…” He said, voice going hesitant again before he quirked a wry smile. “Plus, Williamsburg’s still really hot these days. If we sell now, we still could afford a cockroach-infested East Village walkup, just like old times.”

Jim snorted, then felt himself smile. At Bones. “Actually, apparently Scotty plays the real estate market. He’s a whiz about getting in places you’d never have thought humanly possible.”

Bones’ brows furrowed. “The produce guy? I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true. He screwed Jon Archer out of a deal on the West Side; it’s why Scotty won’t ever sit anywhere near him. Apparently the produce is the actual sideline. He grows it. On his farm in Greenwich, as well as in his hydroponics greenhouse on top of his mansion on the Upper West Side.”

Bones clearly thought that one over before shaking his head. “You’re a bartender, not a shrink. Why do people tell you these things? And the Upper West Side? Might as well be Siberia. Jesus.”

It was so like the old Bones—and their old banter, his random bitching—that Jim laughed even as his eyes prickled more than a bit at how much he’d missed them, and maybe for the first time he really understood what that word bittersweet meant, those two words together as one, because it was good to think they might get better, but sad, because now he knew. This could always happen again.

“They trust me, Bones. Damned if I can say why.” He hugged his husband, hard, then, and if his arms were trembly, well—he was tired. Bone-deep. Bones looked exhausted, too.

“Spock gonna pitch a fit if I stay over?” Bones asked in the stairwell as they made their way down to the apartment.

Jim shrugged, then looked at Bones sidelong, wondering where this was going. “I think he’ll pitch a fit if you don’t.”

Bones took Jim’s hand as they hit the landing to their floor, then looked down between them. “I could get used to the paint. Maybe.”

Jim nodded and kissed him then because at least they were talking, and Bones wasn’t ranting and slamming doors shut, emotion-wise. If it wasn’t the longest or best kiss— it was the stubbliest, they’d both failed to shave for several weeks and the friction was fierce, Jim’s lips tingling from just the short contact—and it was at least one that said, louder than any Jim’d had before: _I missed you._ _I want to do this again._ _I hope I can maybe do better_. He thought maybe they were both saying it; at least he knew he was. And if they returned, afterward, to talking about Gaila’s ideas about male pedicures and unimportant shit, well, at least they were talking. They could build up to the heavier stuff.

Once they were settled in bed, Jim little-spooned though he would’ve been fucking thrilled with just holding hands and another, less fraught warm kiss goodnight, he couldn’t help but add, “Next week I’m going to try purple and gold. I think gold’s going to be a good color on me.”

In the dark, Bones chuckled, his breath tickling Jim’s neck, and Jim felt his heart full to bursting with warmth and blood, though of course it was all just emotion, no new weird physical thing going on.

“I can try to get used to that, I guess.”

Jim smiled and pulled their interlinked hands up to kiss Bones’ rough, knobbly knuckles. He loved how they’d aged, gotten just a little more veined, more bony, defined. David McCoy had had such elegant, elderly hands, and Jim’d always hoped Bones’ hands would go the same way. Hunh. He hadn’t thought about that in a while. “That’s all I ask. Just keep trying, okay?”

Bones kissed the side of his ear, missed his neck again, then finally connected. “You too.”

If Bones needed the reassurance of a promise he'd already made?  Then for now, well, he could. He would. At least, he’d sure as hell try.

\--

  
  
****  
_Rye Manhattan_  
  


2 oz. Old Overholt Rye  
1 oz. sweet (red) vermouth  
2 dashes bitters  
1 maraschino cherry  
stir vigorously with three ice cubes in a short tumbler  
add a twist of orange or lemon to serve

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was the last fic I wrote in the ST:AOS/Kirk/McCoy fandom for a really, really long time. I've written two little ficlets since then, but this one kind of killed my momentum because after I was done writing it I sat back, read it, and realized: _I need a divorce, I am not getting the hopeful ending I wrote here._
> 
> It got kind of hard to write about two smart morons with communication issues who loved each other-- and onto whom I'd been projecting all my personal woes for years-- after that.
> 
> So this is kind of my apology to the nu!Trek Kirk/McCoy fandom for just disappearing-- you saved my life in more ways than you'll know, especially the jim_and_bones bridge crew, at a time over 2 1/2 years when I was profoundly sad and in need of some friends who could tell me my feelings were real when even I couldn't figure out what they were, and I'm sorry I kind of fell off the planet, but I'm also not sorry to have needed the space, and in re-reading and posting these stories again, I'm glad that these latter ones aren't as cringingly id-fic as I've been worried they might have been. The friendships and the stories were real, after all.


End file.
